


Shell Shocked Shiro

by 1960somethingBatman



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: 'cause WWI isn't taught nearly enough at schools, Angst, Depression, Gen, No Fluff, One Shot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shiro's not having such a great time, Suicide Attempt, Survivor Guilt, WWI fic, as you could probably tell, or shell shock as it was called back then
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 09:01:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19248019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1960somethingBatman/pseuds/1960somethingBatman
Summary: Shiro's deployment during the Great War was pure hell, but that didn't matter. It was over. The War to End all Wars was finally over and things were going to get better. Things were supposed to get better, and, at least for a while, they did. But all good things must come to an end. Shiro can't run from his demons forever. What happens when they finally catch up?





	Shell Shocked Shiro

When Shiro stepped off that ramp, taking one, final step off the ship and back onto glorious American soil, things were supposed to get better. The War to End All Wars was over, after all. They had won. He didn’t have to worry about not sealing his mask fast enough to survive the wall of poison gas billowing towards him, or getting shot as he scrambled to the other side of no-mans-land, or having to sit back and watch the rats gnawing off the leg of a fellow soldier because he’d be shot if he stood up to throw their corpse out of that godforsaken trench. Things were supposed to be fine now. They were supposed to get easier.

Things did not get easier.

The first few weeks back were pure hell. He’d wake up shaking and screaming, fists lashing out at just about anything they could hit. He’d spend the following hours shivering, muttering senselessly as Keith held him in his arms. Shiro was fine. He was supposed to be fine. Every soldier felt down after returning home, right? This was normal. It had to be normal. It wasn't that serious. Just nightmares. He could handle nightmares. They were normal. He was normal. Not some coward with Shell Shock. He didn't have Shell Shock. This wasn't Shell Shock. It was around this point that Keith would shush him, running a hand through his sweaty mess of hair and gently rock back to sleep.

Keith. Sweet, innocent, just-barely-too-young-to-be-drafted Keith. He had been the first one to greet Shiro when he stepped off the boat. That one hug they shared after over three whole years of absence had felt like the whole world was right again. Like he hadn’t witnessed the death of just about every friend he ever had. Like he wasn’t dragged screaming from the front lines when he injured his arm. Like he didn’t have to wait a whole extra year in the country he almost died in because there weren’t enough boats to send him home. That one hug should have been enough. It was enough at first, but… then the nightmares came. 

Keith didn't deserve this. He shouldn't have had to stay up at night just to calm Shiro down from a stupid dream. He shouldn't have had to run home from work every day, worried in case Shiro had another episode while he was gone. He shouldn't have had to work three jobs just to pull the weight of his useless, crazy older brother. So Shiro smothered the symptoms.

The next several months were better. He would still catch shadows flickering across the edges of his vision, and rat-filled coffins dragging him from what little sleep he could manage, but he was handling himself better. He’d stiffen up and bite his tongue to stop himself from screaming, but at least he was quiet. At least he was still. Keith believed Shiro was getting better. He had even managed to catch a job fixing broken cars at a local repair shop. Almost held it for a whole six month too.

Shiro sighed, running his handkerchief over the barrel of his Colt M1892. He had tried to do better. He honestly had, and Keith had been so happy for him too, but as with everything else with his life, it didn’t last. He should have expected this. Part of him already did. 

He loaded a bullet into one of the chambers. The day had started out alright. He came to work early, socialized with his coworkers, even flirted a bit with the boss’s niece. And to top it all off, he hadn't had a single hint of trauma. His tongue was bleeding when he went to work that morning, but Keith had been able to sleep. That was all that mattered. Today might have been perfect if only that stupid rat didn't show up. 

His fingers fiddled with the cylinder, slowly rolling it back and forth. He hated rats. Loathed them with a burning, seething, fiery passion. They were disgusting creatures. Always crawling around in the worst of places with their spiked claws and razor-like teeth, spreading their awful diseases, gnawing on his rations, on nearby corpses, on him. Trying to nip at his bad arm. The arm that had been broken twice and shot once. The arm he almost had to have amputated because of trench rot and gangrene. The one that had maggots crawling around and eating away at the dead flesh, yet still miraculously survived. 

He spun the cylinder of his revolver in one, fast motion before snapping it back into place. When he first saw the rat, he froze, his wrench clattering to the ground. He was back in the trenches watching Matt, his one and only friend still alive in that hell hole, sick and dying next to him as one of those monsters moved on from eating the corpse next to them and crept towards Matt. His colt had shot the thing dead before it even had the chance. 

The muzzle of his gun rested nicely under his chin. Shiro should have controlled himself better. He shouldn't have panicked when he saw the thing, shouldn't have just stood there trying to force fear and bile back down his throat, shouldn't have jumped, spinning around and punching his boss square in the mustache when he reached out and touched his shoulder, asking what was wrong. There were a lot of things he shouldn't have done that day. Like running. He ran from the shop as fast as he could, and now here he was, running from yet another problem in his life. 

He took a deep breath, trying to calm his shaking hands. Coming home was supposed to fix so many things in his life, but all it did was leave him feeling scared and weak and just… broken. He had tried so hard to pick up the pieces, but they just kept falling through his fingers, shattering even more as they hit the ground below. Shiro was tired. Tired of fake smiles, of forced laughter, of telling himself day after day that he was fine, that he could handle it, that he wasn’t crazy. He lied to himself just as much as he lied to Keith. It was the madmen that heard voices, the lunatics that saw visions, the violent nutjobs that panicked and hit old men after forgetting that the largest war in all of history had already ended.

If only his past captains could see him now. He wasn't sure how Major Holt would react. Disappointed, probably. Iverson would be harsher. He had made his opinion very clear when one of his soldiers had to be discharged from an extreme case of Shell Shock. Trauma was just another excuse for weakness on the battlefield, after all. Shiro cracked a sad, reminiscent smile, briefly wondering what became of the soldier before pulling the trigger.

_ Click _ .

Empty. A failure in life and a failure in death. He shouldn't be surprised at this point. Shiro popped open the cylinder, spinning it again before snapping it back into place. He thought back to Matt, wondering how he was doing now that the war was over. He was probably still in London with his father, helping their allies clean up after the war. Shiro wondered what would happen when he got the news. If he hadn't even returned to his mother and sister when the war first ended, would coming back now be any different? Would going to Shiro’s funeral be worth it? He lifted the gun back under his chin.

_ Click. _

“Darn. Two in a row.” He said, popping the cylinder back out for another spin. 

Part of him felt guilty. Now that Commander Holt had been promoted, Iverson was Matt and Shiro’s new commanding officer. When word got out that Shiro offed himself, Matt and the entire rest of Shiro’s troop would get an earful of Iverson’s classic “I’d better not catch you weaklings being as damn useless as this walking mistake was” speech. 

_ Click.  _

Three in a row. What luck.

The other part of him felt guilty that he hadn't done this sooner. That he had let Keith struggle, trying to support both of them for so long. Keith wouldn't have dropped out of school if they didn't desperately need the money. If Shiro had just died during the war, Keith would have been on the path to a better future. He would still be chasing his dreams in pilot school, not slaving away with three separate jobs. Shiro coming back had shattered all of that.

_ Click. _

It was becoming routine now. Pop, spin, snap, disappointment. 

And then there was also the false promise of Shiro’s return. Keith had waited earnestly, writing him every week without fail. He had been so scared while Shiro was away, so terrified every time Shiro was too sick or too preoccupied with staying alive to write back. For over two years Keith waited, listening to reports of daily casualties over the radio, praying that Shiro’s name wasn't listed.

_ Click _ .

He should statistically be dead by now.

It was cruel, making Keith suffer through all of that anxiety and uncertainty, before finally coming back, only to kill himself in the end. He hated giving Keith such a false sense of hope. He hated lying to him, telling him things were getting better only to pull something like this out of (what Keith would assume) nowhere. Just another one of Shiro’s many, many flaws. 

_ Click. _

Okay, the world was just messing with him now. Shiro popped the cylinder, checking to make sure he hadn't imagined placing a bullet in. He slid in a second one, just to be safe. 

The door slammed open. “Ugh, I can't believe Lance sometimes. Why can't he just—Shiro! You’re home early. What happened?”

Shiro jumped, the gun fumbling out of his hands and landing on the floor.

“S-Sorry! Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. I just…” Keith glanced down at the revolver lying on the floor, then up to the handkerchief and box of bullets on the table. “You’re… cleaning your revolver?” 

“Y-Yep!” Shiro said a bit too quickly, “What are you doing home so early? You weren't supposed to get here for another hour or so.” 

“But… you haven't been able to even look at that thing since you’ve come back.” His face furrowed in confusion. “My boss had to leave for some meeting about stock exchange or something, so he let us leave early. What’s… Shiro, what’s going on?”

Shiro dove for the gun, snapping the cylinder into place, sticking it to his temple and firing all in one motion.

_ Click. _

“Shit.”

“Shiro! What do you think you’re—”

Roulette be damned, Shiro cocked the trigger. Keith froze, realization and terror dawning on him all at once. 

_ Click. _

He lunged for the gun, trying to wrestle it out of Shiro’s hands. He forced it down, away from the man’s head. “Damn it Keith let go!” 

“Let go? Let  _ go _ ?!? You expect me to just sit back and watch you  _ kill _ yourself?”

Shiro managed to cock the trigger again, starting to point it back towards himself. “You wouldn't understand.”

“God knows I don't, but that doesn't mean I can't help. You… you were supposed to be getting better. I was supposed to be helping! Was I not doing enough?”

“That’s not… God, Keith, you’re the only thing worth living for in this godforsaken place, but I can't… I-I just… I’m sorry.” 

**_BANG!_ **

“Sh-Shiro! Shiro are you…”

Blood seeped through the fabric of Shiro’s shirt. He grunted, clutching his stomach as Keith helped him sink to the floor.

“Dang it. Just… sit tight. I’ll try to find an ambulance or a doctor or… or something.”

Shiro chuckled, “A failure in life and a failure in death. Can already hear Iverson’s voice ‘Thought the—cough—war was over, didn’t ya, ya damn deserter. If you were just going to die anyway, you could’ve—cough, cough—least shot straight.”

“Stop talking. I’m getting you some help.”

“Tell Matt ‘m sorry. Boat tickets are expensive these days. He can—cough, cough—use whatever money I got in the bank from my mechanic job to pay the—cough—pay the fare. If… If he wants to come to the funeral that is.”

“Shiro, stop. Just… Just stop. I don't want to leave you alone, but I’ve got to get a doctor, so you had better not die before I get back.” Keith grabbed the revolver and raced out the door.

“Heh,” Shiro chuckled after Keith left. He coughed again, blood drizzling down his chin, “No promises.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so you made it to the end! Thanks for sticking with it. This was a bit of a ranty piece I wrote, like, a year or so ago to help get me out of a not-so-great mental state. I've found that, for whatever reason, reading and writing depressing pieces like this can help unwind some of the stress my mind puts me through. 
> 
> Anyway, I'm going off on a tangent. Drop a comment if you want. Both praise and criticism are equally appreciated.
> 
>  
> 
> Fun Fact of the Day: maggots can be used to clean wounds. This is because they only eat dead flesh. They were first used during the Napoleonic Wars (yes, I am aware this happened before WWI. Not everyone thought letting maggots crawl around in wounds was a good idea), and since then have been used by doctors to this day. This is an extremely simplified explanation, of course, (not all maggots are created equal) but maggot therapy does remain to be one of the most effective ways of cleaning wounds to this day. One of the major reasons why its use isn't more prevalent is because most insurance companies don't cover the cost of treatment. Leeches are also used frequently by modern doctors (specifically plastic surgeons), but that's a different story for a different day.


End file.
